Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Now he realized, too, that the metropolis he had seen through the fog shrouds, the city of tiny, fragile dwellings, was actually as small as it appeared. He’d been wrong in assuming that visual distances on this planet were varied.

  And now the water craft containing the tiny men of this planet was drawing closer, coming toward him at what—to them—was probably tremendous speed.

  SHAN inclined his great head slightly, the better to view the approaching delegation from the creatures of this strange planet.

  And then he saw the tiny points of fire flicking from the nose of the small craft. He frowned, suddenly aware of sharp, stinging sensations on his massive legs.

  It took Shan fully a minute to comprehend that the little creatures of this planet were hostile, and that the fire from the mechanical water bug and the stinging pain in his legs were evidences of their desire to drive him off.

  There was another, sharper pain, then, and Shan felt a small, hot projectile bury itself in the first inch of his thick calf. Instinctively, he bent down, reaching for the tiny craft with his huge hand. Then he scooped it up from the water, while the tiny man-like creatures scrambled wildly for the sides.

  They leaped before Shan could prevent it. All five tiny bodies plummeting down into the water, as Shan, unaware of the fragility of the craft in comparison to his own tremendous strength, unintentionally crushed it in his huge hand like an eggshell.

  Realizing what he’d done, Shan threw the remains of the broken vessel from his hand, and bent in search of the tiny creatures who’d leaped from it moments before. But though he ran his hand through the waters in which he stood and peered intently through the green murkiness, Shan could find no trace of them.

  He shook his head wonderingly, and started forward again toward the white sand stretches in the distance.

  “I did not wish to destroy them,” Shan thought regretfully. His massive brow was wrinkled in a frown of bewilderment, as he sought to explain the hostility the creatures of this strange planet had displayed toward him.

  But Shan took no more than four gigantic strides when a growingly audible buzzing reached his keen ears. He paused, listening, peering through the fog that shrouded him, trying to place this sound.

  He heard it directly behind him, now, even more loudly than before, Wheeling, Shan saw the cause of this new sound. Buzzing toward him like an angry bee was another incredibly small and curiously designed machine. He knew instinctively that this mechanical wasp—looking similar to a space ship with wings—was another delegation from the little people of this strange planet.

  And as if to confirm his thoughts that this, too, would be a hostile greeting, tiny spurts of flame began licking toward him from the nose of this air borne craft.

  And almost simultaneously, Shan felt the stinging burn of their impact against his huge shoulders.

  Shan cried out, and even as he did so, realized that his voice would be thunderous to the little inhabitants of this planet; and that the words he used would undoubtedly he incomprehensible.

  The tiny flying bug had shot up and beyond Shan’s reach now. And he craned his big neck as he watched it climb higher still above him. He was unprepared for the swift, lightning-like dive it made on him from its new altitude.

  THE flame points were lancing into his shoulders and neck once more, stinging and drawing blood from his thick skin. Shan threw out his hands to ward off the pinpoint fury of this new attack.

  “My mission is peace!” Shan roared out, before recalling that his words and voice would be futile and only terrifying to these tiny persons.

  But again, Shan’s attacker shot up and away from his grasp, lacing hot needles of pain across his chest in a furious burst of fire before climbing above him again.

  Shan turned, and started back through the water toward his half submerged space ship. There would be a temporary refuge in there, he reasoned. And as he churned through the green water, he heard the buzzing of the air machine coming up on him from behind.

  MORE to frighten it away long enough for him to get to his space ship, than in any effort to destroy it, Shan wheeled and slapped out at the angry mechanical gnat with his great hand. Slapped out as one might strike at a fly with a swatter.

  And before Shan could check the sweeping blow, he felt the surface of the air machine crush against his broad palm, and knew, sickly, that he had destroyed another craft belonging to the tiny peoples of this planet.

  Mutely, Shan stared down at the small, crushed wreckage of the air machine floating desolately in the water at his feet.

  “If there were but some way I could communicate with the peoples of this planet,” he thought sickly, “I might move through their tiny world as a friend rather than in this fashion.” Shan stood there, listening for the sounds of any more hostile delegations. There was nothing but fog, and silence.

  “There will be others,” Shan thought. “Others will come when it is learned what has happened to these. I do riot wish to destroy them also. To do so would be futile. Perhaps,” he reasoned, “if I take myself off and beyond their range, I will be able to return when daylight is here.”

  Having decided this, Shan turned once more, and started out toward his half submerged space craft. Out beyond it he would find deeper water. There he could remain unmolested until morning came to roll away the fog and darkness . . .

  CHAPTER V

  The Call to Action

  ADMIRAL HALLET waited with Luke Forest at the boat house as the gray, murky dawn gradually cast a pale light over the tossing waters of the Pacific.

  The two men were seated at a small table in the barroom, a bottle and two glasses between them. They had said little in the four hours that had passed since the navy PT boat and observation plane had been sent out to investigate the mysterious explosion.

  Occasionally the admiral glanced at his watch and occasionally Luke Forest sipped a bit of brandy from his glass. There was a tense, worried look on the clubman’s tanned face.

  “They should be back by now,” he said anxiously. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”

  The admiral shrugged his spare shoulders. His lean face was gray with fatigue, but his eyes were snappingly keen in the morning light. He glanced at his watch again.

  “They could have gotten back,” he said slowly, “but whether they ‘should’ be back is a different matter. If their reconnaissance isn’t completed they shouldn’t return until it is.”

  Luke Forest lighted a cigarette with a nervous hand.

  “I see what you mean,” he said, “but its seems to me they’ve had plenty of time to investigate the scene of the explosion and get back here.

  “Maybe,” the admiral said.

  Ten more minutes passed and the feeble orange light of the rising sun was beginning to tint the grayness of the dawn.

  Then the phone rang jarringly in the quietness.

  Luke Forest reached it in two quick strides and snapped the receiver to his ear.

  “Yes?” he said tensely.

  He listened for a moment and his face turned gray.

  “God!” he said weakly. “Are you sure?”

  “What is it?” the admiral snapped.

  Luke Forest replaced the phone in its cradle and stared dumbly, strickenly at the admiral.

  “The wreckage of a navy PT boat has been found,” he said dully. “A man discovered it on the beach about six miles from here. He reported it to the navy. The boat is demolished.”

  “The crew?” Admiral Hallet demanded. “What of the crew?”

  “No trace,” Forest said heavily. “No trace at all.”

  Admiral Hallet’s shoulders slumped. Dazedly he passed a tired, feeble hand over his white hair. He felt suddenly old and helpless and futile.

  Luke Forest was looking at him anxiously.

  “What shall we do now, sir?” he asked.

  Admiral Hallet stared at him unseeingly. His thoughts were on the two young lieutenants, the two eager, trusting navy men who had f
ollowed his orders, and in doing so had gone to their death.

  “What now, sir?” Forest asked again.

  ADMIRAL HALLET shook his head wearily. But he couldn’t shake off the responsibility that Forest’s question implied. What was to be done now? It was his authority, his duty to answer the question.

  He couldn’t quit now, although for the first time in his life he felt like doing so. He had asked for this, and he had to stick with it.

  “Get a car,” he said. “We’re going out to the wreck.”

  The chauffeur was only able to drive the car to the edge of the steep cliff, and the admiral and Forest had to scramble down to the beach. By the time they forced their way through the tangled brush to where the shattered wreck of the PT boat lay on the white sands, it was almost ten o’clock in the morning.

  The sun was almost completely obscured by the heavy green fog, only a few feeble, dull rays seeping through to cast their eerie illumination over the scene.

  There was a crowd about the shattered wreck of the boat. Photographers, newsmen, navy officials and a scattering of men and women who lived in the vicinity.

  The admiral shouldered his way through the throng until he could get an unobstructed view of the mangled PT boat.

  And mangled was the only word to describe the once-slim, once-graceful little boat.

  Both sides of the ship had been buckled and crushed together as if in the press of a mighty vise. Admiral Hallet shuddered as he looked at the broken, crushed ship. Its battered, demolished condition brought to mind rumors he had heard of Axis “secret weapons” capable of just such destruction as this. One rumor had it that Nazi submarines were equipped with giant pincers which could slice through the hull of a ship as easily as a hot knife through butter.

  Looking at the mangled sides of the PT boat he wondered. Was it possible that some unknown, horrible instrument of war had been perfected by the Axis powers? And was it possible that this pitifully destroyed boat was a victim of that terrible weapon?

  THE admiral spent nearly a half hour at the wreck, examining everything carefully. None of the ship’s four torpedoes had been fired. Whatever had destroyed the ship had done so before the two young lieutenants could open fire with their torpedoes.

  When Admiral Hallet finally left the scene of the disaster with Luke Forest, they drove immediately back to the yacht club’s boat house. There an ensign from Naval Intelligence was waiting for him.

  “Admiral Hallet?” he asked.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  The ensign glanced uncertainly at Luke Forest.

  “It’s all right,” the admiral said irritably. “Speak up.”

  “A navy observation plane has been reported missing since early this morning. It was operating over this area and keeping in touch with its base by radio.”

  “Yes, yes, go on,” Admiral Hallet snapped.

  “Its radio went dead and it is believed that the plane crashed into the ocean.”

  Admiral Hallet received the staggering information without a flicker of expression. The PT boat, and now the observation plane! Both destroyed while investigating the mysterious explosion of a few hours previous.

  He looked sharply at the ensign.

  “What else do you have to tell me?”

  “Nothing, sir. I am to relay your orders to GHQ. That’s all, sir.”

  Admiral Hallet’s jaw was grim.

  “There’ll be orders, all right,” he snapped. “I want every available naval unit concentrated here without a moment’s delay. Send a wire to the marine station at San Diego to stand by. Clear all private shipping out of this area, and order every available bomber and fighter plane in the coastal area into action. We’ve been sleeping, but by God, we’re awake now. Whatever it is that’s menacing this coast line is going to be destroyed I Now get moving!”

  CHAPTER VI

  Shan Fights the Metal Fish

  IT HAD been a matter of hours in which Shan, still concealed by the fog and water and darkness, kept wary vigil with his strong and unblinking eyes. By now his sight was adjusted to bring into focus the activities that went on along the shore line of the tiny metropolis and the areas around it.

  Dawn had yet to break, but there had been activity on the part of the little inhabitants of that metropolis throughout the night. And as the hours of watching slipped by, it became more and more apparent to Shan that some sort of an attacking force was being readied. And there was no doubt in his mind that his presence, unseen though it was at the moment, was the cause of all that increased activity.

  Sickly, Shan was aware that this would mean the frustration of his mission. Too, he realized that such a vast array of hostile inhabitants, tiny though they were, and small be their craft, might succeed in harming him where the two solitary efforts had failed.

  And due to this, Shan had already made several inspections of his space craft, satisfying himself as to its readiness should it become necessary to leave this planet swiftly.

  Through his solitary vigil, Shan had done much thinking. And the more he turned the problem over in his mind, the more was he aware that the chance for success in his mission was now almost gone.

  Bitterly, he realized that the very barrier which stood in the way of its successful accomplishment was the tremendous physical differences between the people of his own planet and the little creatures who inhabited this sphere.

  Their hostility, their antagonism, could only be explained by sheer fright. And though their civilization might be comparatively as advanced as that of Jupiter, there would be no common basis of exchange between this planet and his own until the first difficulty was bridged.

  Shan was not concerned with the jibes and scorn that would be his if it were necessary to return to Jupiter unsuccessful. He had accomplished much merely in the spanning of the great spatial distances that lay between Jupiter and this lesser planet. The data and information he had gathered on that alone would be of priceless value to the store of Jupiter’s scientific knowledge.

  His bitterness grew from the dawning realization that his mission was undertaken too soon in the ultimate scheme of things. Later, perhaps, many light years later, the link between this planet and his own might successfully be forged. And the sole satisfaction Shan got from this was the realization that the future linking of this planet and his own would be accomplished in some small part from his own first exploratory voyage.

  Shan’s thoughts were interrupted with increasing frequency by the buzzing sounds of grouped air machines which scoured the vicinity seeking his whereabouts. And on all such occasions, Shan crouched low in the water around him, thankful that the green of his body blended almost perfectly with the green of the water. Too, the fog was thickening perceptibly, making the chances of his being discovered by the scouting air machines even more remote.

  And it was in this manner that Shan waited out beyond the eyes and striking power of the little people of the strange planet; waited through the fog and the darkness, watching the distant shoreline yearningly, stretching out the time of his inevitable departure from this alien planet.

  And it was toward the end of his watch, that Shan first felt the brushing of the strange, sharp finned, little metal fish against his legs beneath the water. . .

  THE young U-boat commander’s face was lean and hard beneath the peak of his officer’s cap. At the moment, however, his brow was streaked with sweat, and his eyes filled with anxiety as he stood at his submarine’s periscope.

  At his elbow stood another young officer, dark haired and granite jawed, and wearing a white turtle necked sweater beneath his uniform jacket.

  “Our soundings and navigational chart checks place us fifteen miles off the California coast, Herr Commander,” said the dark haired, granite jawed young officer to his superior.

  The lean faced young U-boat commander’s eyes didn’t leave the periscope sights as he answered.

  “It is good. Do tests show the rest of our undersea squadron within formation distan
ce agreed upon?”

  “The last check our operator made before we cut off radio communications showed formation status to be in order as agreed on, Herr Commander.”

  The lean faced young commander stepped back from the periscope and rubbed the sweat from his cold blue eyes. He glanced at the Swiss watch on his wrist.

  “Our own craft we can count on,” he said. “Our undersea formation work is standard to us. But we must make certain that the ten other undersea craft, those of our yellow skinned allies, will keep formation as agreed upon.”

  “We can make a brief code radio check,” suggested the hard jawed, dark haired second officer. “I doubt if the stupid Americans would pick it up, or recognize it in time.”

  “Ja, perhaps you are right,” agreed the young commander. “They are stupid enough to have but fragmentarily mined these coastal waters, and should not be too alert if our signals are brief.”

  The second officer grinned.

  “To see the expressions on their complacent faces when twenty undersea craft come to the surface just off their Los Angeles, and begin shelling, would be worth a year’s pay,” he said. “Ten of our craft, and ten Japanese. They will go mad with terror.”

  The commander smiled briefly, savagely.

  “Order the brief radio code check,” he said.

  The second officer returned to his young commander’s side five minutes later.

  “Check made, Herr Commander. Formation intact, all twenty craft in mile radius.”

  The commander nodded in satisfaction. “Ja, it is goo—” he began.

  His sentence was never completed. For at that instant the undersea craft jarred hard against an unknown submerged object, driving it off course and sending members of the crew sprawling from their stations to the floor.

  “Ach, gott!” the second officer shouted. “Stations!” And he was scrambling to his feet from where he’d been hurled by the shock. Then he was at the diving controls of the ship, frantically spinning the periscope wheel with one hand.